


Goodnight, Colonel Moran

by tiger_moran



Series: Precursor [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Disguise, Drunkenness, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: For the prompt from anon: What about like, how Moran and Moriarty met?





	Goodnight, Colonel Moran

Perhaps because it is raining, perhaps because he loathes this cesspool of a city even in the dry and trebly so when it's wet, Moran drinks rather more than is probably healthy. He considers that this is a problem for his internal organs to deal with (they have never failed him yet) and it need not consciously concern him overmuch. His thoughts are more centred around hoping that he might actually get a solid night's sleep tonight, although that's highly unlikely considering how dingy and dank his rented room is even at the best of times.

Whilst walking towards his accommodation, though he has usually always been excellent at pretending to be sober when he’s actually had several too many, he stumbles a bit as he is crossing the road (later he'll blame it on the slipperiness of the wet surface). There is a loud noise, a clattering and an animal cry, and a dark shape looms over him and suddenly strong hands are gripping him, tugging him backwards.

Half-fallen to the ground, supported by those mysterious hands, Moran blearily watches a four-wheeler charge past him, the driver taking a moment to yell something incomprehensible but no doubt terribly rude back at him, before he thinks to consider exactly whose hands those are.

“Very grateful, my good man,” he says, trying to extricate himself in order to rise with a little more dignity but not quite managing it due to a (hopefully) temporary disconnect between his brain and his legs. Instead of getting himself upright he finds himself clinging to his saviour's dark-coloured coat, trying to steady himself while he starts laughing.

“My dear fellow,” the man says. Soft voice, Irish accent. “Had a drop too much, have we? That’s it, there we go.” He helps Moran to stand up by gripping the Colonel's forearms and hoisting him upright as if picking up a toddler who has fallen down.

Realising the strength contained in those hands, Moran studies the man a little more intently. He has an oddly stooped posture suggestive of great age or else some manner of deformity, but his actual age would be hard to pin down. He appears rather gaunt with his eyes set in darkened hollows, though it is dark here away from the pools of intermittent brightness cast by the gas-lamps and much of the man's face is further shaded by the brim of a rather floppy hat and there is a loosely woven scarf tied high around his neck. Does he have a beard? Possibly, or perhaps not. Either way, there is something of the air of a clergyman or an ascetic about him. He seems harmless enough but the strength of him and the intensity of the look in his pale eyes makes a prickle run down Moran’s spine. It's a feeling that reminds him of being back in the jungle, eye to eye with a great predator – a feeling that is part fear and part excitement born of that fear.

“Thank you,” he says. He suddenly feels a lot more sober.

“Will you be all right?” the stranger asks, and there seems to be concern in his voice but Moran wonders if it is not merely put on. Something is certainly not quite right about this situation.

“Yeah, I’m all right.” He straightens up. “Thank you.”

“Well, I'll be on my way then.” The man tips his hat at Moran before crossing the road.

“Goodnight.” Moran watches him go, narrowing his eyes slightly. He does not know quite why it feels like something very, very significant has occurred – something far more significant than the happy event of Colonel Sebastian Moran not quite managing to get himself run over by a cab. Of course he checks at once that he has not just had his pockets picked but he finds nothing missing.

Through the gloom he watches the man approach the street corner. Just before the figure disappears around that corner however he stops and turns back. Before Moran's eyes he straightens up, seeming to gain several inches in height. Even in the shadows Moran can tell the other man's pale-eyed gaze is fixed on his.

“Goodnight, Colonel Moran,” the stranger calls to him. The voice is still soft but strong, easily carrying across the street. No trace of the Irish accent is evident now. Moran is put more in mind of some upper-class English schoolmaster.

And then the man is gone, ducking around the corner.

“Wait!” Moran calls after him, despite his inebriated state trying to run after the figure.

But when he reaches the corner the man has gone entirely. No trace of him remains. There is not even a sound of footsteps to indicate where he has disappeared to.

Moran leans back against the wall, rubbing a hand over his eyes, suddenly feeling very wearied. He is far too drunk to be dealing with shit like this tonight, he decides, but he wonders why, though that mysterious figure probably just saved his life, it feels more like he has just looked Death in the eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a Moriarty/Moran prompt you want me to attempt to write, leave a comment or send me an ask through my tumblr tiger-moran.tumblr.com (fluff, moderate angst, smut, kink all fine but I do not write death fic, actual rape/abuse, mpreg or that alpha/omega stuff, or kinks involving piss/shit/needles/knives)


End file.
